The meeting of Jamie and Damon, from Gorillaz
by theincredibleinkspitter
Summary: This fanfic is kind of special, I did not knew where to put it. You all know Jamie Hewlett, the creator of Tank Girl? You also know that he drew everything for Gorillaz, Damon Albarn's band (Blur)? But have you ever wondered of the first day they met? This is a short review of what might have happend... Be nice, it's my first fanfic, and english is not my mother tongue! :)


I definitely loved London; I was walking through the streets with the excitation of a kid who just discovered his dad's porn magazines. Everything was exciting to me, those chicks walking with their buttocks in the air since eight o' clock, the crazy nights going on in Camden Town, the independent record stores, the peanut butter, even the duck were driving me a big boner.

I was living a few blocks away from my best buddy Alan, with whom I had created some kind of totally insane fanzine, it was pretty funny, it was the story of a girl half punk half toper, well, in fact, she was TOTALLY a toper, she was having sex with a kangaroo who kept on drinking booze and kicking every single lost dude he could find in the street. Normal, isn't it? It wasn't always that easy, Alan and I didn't have that much money, but it was so rock'n'roll… We were publishing our rag in _Deadline_, and I was even drawing the cover page. I was a big fan from the Clash so every two pages, I was putting references about Mick Jones, and it was making Alan laugh.

My new life was way different from the one I used to have, and even if I was living in Worthing, where nothing fun ever happens, I was glad to work with my mate. Compared to before, it was terrific: there were plenty of hot girls to have sex with, the beer was not that expensive, and making comics was the kind of stuffs that make you sound like a rock star, and I kinda like it… even if, unfortunately, I did not had that much groupies.

So today, it seems that I had an appointment in a bar located in Camden Town. The perfect place, which reminded me of the seventies and of those nights spend on drinking shooters of cheap vodka. And like usually, I was late. Things have to be said, I had been spending the night by a girl I met the day before in an Irish pub. Nothing extraordinary, except that my regular girlfriend, Jane, did not knew about it. I was too addicted to her cute little face to break off with her, even if the grass is greener elsewhere, as weed always seems to be better when someone offers you a joint, instead of you paying it.

I was getting out of her bed, trying to be discreet, the brassy blonde was snoring from the other side of the bed, while one of her hand stood outside the sheets. It was quite easy to find fuckables chicks in London, you just needed to say that you're an artist, and BANG! Four girls are ready to suck your balls, and I was totally taking the opportunity.

My clothes were scattered on the floor: an old red tshirt from XTC and patched trousers. I should think about buying a new one, when I'll have the time for it, and I could use the money I earned with the last issue of _Tank Girl_. As I walked through the kitchen, I suddenly felt hungry, and decided to see if there was something in the fridge: except some jelly, a can of milk and some cheddar, it was almost empty. I hesitated a bit, but the thirst assailed me so I popped the plug and let some milk flow down my throat. The milk drips on the floor, a drop at a time, staining the floor of strange white marks. I cast one last glance to the door of the room, wiped the milk from my lips, and put on my leather jacket. Once I was out, I realized I did not remember the last time I had sex while I was sober.

The sun was already high in the sky, I had forgotten my cigarettes and Lou Reed's voice was going through my head, _take a walk on the wide side_… And it reminds me of the ten pounds banknote I had in my pocket, I could buy some Marlboro before joining the guy from _Deadline_. I don't even know which guy I'm supposed to meet today, some kind of Britpop singer if I remember, I don't even remember his name. Well, never mind. I'll see what will happen.

A few streets later, I arrive around Camden Town, and I see the sign of the Camden Lock and that tattoo studio that Jane showed me once. We have even planned to get inked together.

I push the bar's door, I am surrounded by Londoners having a drink. I'm looking for that guy from the magazine, and then I remember the name from that guy in this band who is supposed to be with him today, he's called Damian, or Damon, sounds like Demon, like in "Damien: the Omen" with that evil kid, nice movie by the way, makes me smile suddenly, like a fool.

Then, suddenly, I see him.

A thin lock of hair is falling in front of his eyes, he's looking at a magazine, one hand holding a pint of beer, the other one going carelessly through his hair. The glass goes to his lips, and then I realize this guy has some pretty damn class, even if he looks like a teen and wears some kind of gay pearls necklace.

And then, it's like if the time where stopping.

My eyes are hanging on his lips. The pint. His lips. The pint. HIS MOTHAFUCKIN' LIPS. Dude, I swear I could sell my soul to the devil, and also give him my heterosexuality by the way, just to taste those lips. They have such a perfect curve, they shine a bit because of the booze, and then, final insult, his tongue slowly goes on his lower lips and takes away a lost small drop of beer.

I hardly swallow my saliva. Everything is going crazy in my head. Jane. The girl I fucked last night. My ex. My mom. Jane again. This is the reason why I am messed up: I remember his name now, and it repeats itself in my head all over again: Damon, Damon, Damon.

I don't know for how long I has been looking at this guy, I don't know if I spent seconds or minutes doing it, but I must look pretty stupid, with my Marlboro in one hand and my booze in the other one. And one of both is going to fall on the floor in a second if I do not decide to act…

And, of course, it is at that delicate moment that Mister M. decides to act. Mister M., it's a guy I have created in my head: some kind of weird green guy, doing Satanist rites on his own while listening to Mexican music. He lives in an old van that smells like cum and old pizzas, but he fucks a lot of girls anyway, chicks that are totally hypnotized by his guru attitude, a Charles Manson doppelgänger. I do not know how to call him yet, but I know it will begins with a 'm', like M le Maudit, Misfits, Masturbation, Marty McFly: so many awesome stuffs begins with a 'm'.

The problem is that in simple situations, my brain tends to separates into two parts: the normal one, and the one from Mister M., who reminds me of demented stuffs, whispers strange sentences or dirty jokes, and make me think of improbable and even awkward situations. I must be a bit schizophrenic.

So like I said, this is the time where Mister M. decided to act. I was standing in the middle of that pub, holding my beer, and then I saw myself in a big old theater, like a local cinema, with big sofas for two or three people, broken armrest and red velvet cushions. They are projecting _Faster Pussycat, Kill Kill_, right at the moment where Tura Satana kicks an old pervert's balls with her leather dominatrix boots. I have never been there, I look around and notice that every seat is empty, not a single person in the front rows, and the room is so huge that I can hardly see the projectionist. The light coming from the screen hurts my eyes, and I look to my left. There he is.

As if he has read my thoughts, he begins to look at me. My spine begins to shiver, of a guilty but so delicious way. The smile on his lips gets bigger, as he blinks at me and whisper: "**What are you waiting for… honey?**" And, without hesitating for a single second, I pounce on him, my lips violently hurts his, as I try to kiss him with a desire I never felt in my life. I feel he's smiling of a satisfied way, as he wraps his arms around my hips, without any shame, in order to make me fall against him on the couch. I shiver, my body is as warm as hell, as I slip my burning tongue on his lips.

It is at the precise moment where his hands innocently goes on my ass that I woke up, realizing at the same time that I'm in that pub, and that my trousers suddenly feels extra-tight. I look down, and when I look back to Damon, I swallow very, very hardly. I dunno if the excuse of the morning wood will work at 3 pm…


End file.
